"From the ninth floor," he muttered, "and couldn't get out.... And I
wasn't there! Oh, God, why wasn't I killed there!"




III


THE GOOD PEOPLE

Joe broke through the fire line. He stepped like a calcium-lit figure
over the wet, gleaming pavement, over the snaky hose, and among the
rubber-sheathed, glistening firemen, gave one look at the ghastly heap
on the sidewalk, and then became, like the host of raving relatives and
friends and lovers, a man insane. It was as if the common surfaces of
life--the busy days, the labor, the tools, the houses--had been drawn
aside like a curtain and revealed the terrific powers that engulf
humanity.

In his ears sounded the hoarse cries of the firemen, the shout of the
sprayed water, the crash of axes, the shatter of glass. It was too
magnificent a spectacle, nature, like a Nero, using humanity to make a
sublime torch in the night. And through his head pulsed and pulsed the
defiant throb of the engines. Cinders fell, sticks, papers, and Joe saw
fitfully the wide ring of hypnotized faces. It was as if the world had
fallen into a pit, and human beings looked on each other aghast.

"Get back there!" cried a burly policeman.